"'Yes,' said he. 'I have thought the matter over, and I believe I have been wrong, so I have made a new will, giving the homestead and all in Cohansey to Dick and his children, if he has any, with a due allowance to his wife. I shall bring the papers in to you in a few days, and we will consult on the best way of obtaining intelligence.' "If I had had any suspicion of what was coming, I should have asked for more particulars; but your grandfather's horse was very restive, and I was in a hurry to keep my appointment. Just as your grandfather turned back to go home, he said, 'I have made you and Fabian executors and guardians.' "I was out of town for several days," continued Mr. Settson, "and the very day after my return, I heard of your grandfather's death. Of course I caused a proper search to be made for the will, but it was not to be found. Cassius, whom I questioned closely, knew nothing of the matter, not even when or where the will should have been made. His master had been in New York, Philadelphia, and several other places, but he had never known of his visiting a lawyer's office. And though I was at a good deal of trouble and expense, I could never find out anything about the matter." Calista sat silent a moment; then she asked, in a tone which was singularly calm and business-like,— "In what year was this, Mr. Settson?" "In 1817." "But did not grandfather know that his son was dead and had left a child?" "No, he knew nothing of either circumstance. Your parents never wrote to him, or he never received their letters. Shortly after your mother's death, Priscilla informed me, through Miss Druett, that she had learned that Richard had left a daughter who was now an orphan, and that as soon as the spring opened, she intended to send for the child and give it a home, though, as she was careful to state, she was under no legal obligation to do so." "Then if the last will could be found, would the old place and the rest be mine?" "Without doubt; but I fear it never will be found." "Mr. Settson," said Calista, with flashing eyes and pale lips, "do you suppose Aunt Priscilla could have destroyed that last will?" Mr. Settson was so startled by the question that it took a very large pinch of snuff to restore his equanimity. "My dear Calista, you should think twice before even hinting at an accusation of such a crime against your aunt. No, I do not believe her capable of such an action—at least at that time. At present I do not hesitate to say that I should hardly be surprised. I believe the love of money has grown to be a disease with her, as it does with most people who indulge in it. Never let it get hold of you, my dear child." "There seems no great danger of my having any money to love," said Calista, rather bitterly. "Oh, but you may love money without having it," said Mr. Settson. "I suppose as many poor people love money as rich people—perhaps more in proportion."